Chapter One

Valen

Before I desired men with rippled abs and a penchant for sixty-nine underwater, I was engaged. He was a nice man who lived next door to me during college. We started hanging out after statistics class where we did more body experiments than actual homework. His name was Dean, and he was as adventurous as his moniker leads you to believe.

We graduated college and began our respective careers, and because Dean followed the path of predictability; he proposed. And because I’d been inundated with his theories on life, I accepted on principle alone. Fireworks never flashed across my eyelids and kisses never turned into molten lava, dripping pussy syndrome. No, the union was safe. I knew I’d be secure forever. Dean wouldn’t cheat or do anything to upset me. By the book, by the goddamn sentence, he would be the definition of a good husband, regardless of cost.

I came home one day and Dean wasn’t enough. It wasn’t one thing or another, it was the whole package wrapped in a beige colored bow tie that did me in. Feet tucked under my ass, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa he let me choose, I told him I wanted to break up. The Bachelor played low in the background as I told him everything I always dreamed of saying, but never did for fear of hurting his feelings.

Dean was masterful at arguments and making his point seem more valid than mine, but I was ready for him this time. I spoke of lust and chemistry. I waxed poetic about messy sex and explosions of love—all things we never had, all things he knew we would never have. I forced my feelings down his throat until he had no rebuttal. At first, I thought I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. It’s hard when you’ve been with someone for a long time. Your mind makes you think you need them to survive. With my safety net gone, I danced back into the single market with a steely resolve that no one could sway.

I immediately gravitated toward the type of men that were the polar opposites of Dean.

The first time I did it, I labeled it novelty. The second, I was ovulating and extremely horny. The third time was because I’d had two martinis and he had fourteen abs. Fourteen. You don’t say no to that. I subconsciously ended up at Burning Fish twice. The third time I went by myself on a mission and even I was willing to admit the addiction was real.

No other man compares. There’s some visceral quality Navy SEALs possess that no other man has. Average Joe doesn’t have a fighting chance. The playing field is seriously unleveled. Normal men should raise the white flag and just bow down already. A SEAL has, in one pinky finger, enough testosterone to populate the planet three times over. Along with loaded AK’s they have loaded dicks. I have a theory that they should spray their seed like a rapid-fire weapon at any fertile woman. There would be more good in the world that way.

Everything they touch is fast and dangerous with a hint of mystery. The allure isn’t something anyone can overlook. Me, especially. I want it all. Every last, throbbing inch of every SEAL I can get my hands on. Dating them is nice and all, but I’m twenty-seven and my skin isn’t as soft as it was when I was eighteen. I’m tired of playing catch and release. I want a SEAL for keeps.

They hang out at this bar and they’re looking for what I’m offering. The lights are low and the noise is loud because it’s almost midnight, so most everyone is already drunk. Women have dark, spill spots on their tops and men have squinty drunk eyes--everyone has bad breath. The kind you get after you’ve drank all night long and alcohol ferments the insides of your cheeks and tongue. I’m not sure what that condition is called, but I know it well and take precautions against it.

I like to arrive when it’s late, like this. I’m still sober enough to edge the drunk girls out of the way and bonus points for still looking clean with minty breath. I’ll do a few shots before I leave, but I need to find him first. Narrowing my eyes, I scan the crowd looking for the “tells.”

If you live here, you know what a SEAL looks like. You have to watch out for the guys who pretend they’re SEALs, or try to pass themselves off as one. They’re just as frequent in places like this. These dudes will be in the Navy and sometimes they are support staff, and they’ll name the command the SEALs work at as their place of employment, but you can root them out with one simple question. “What BUD/s class did you graduate in?”

Regardless of what they want you to think, the imposters won’t ever go so far as to throw out a number. Even they have loyalties to the Frog Men and wouldn’t cross them in their own territory. Sure there are websites where you can check the validity of such a claim, though I’ve never had to use one; I can always spot the real ones.

Narrowing my eyes in the dust-smote atmosphere, I let my eyes find what they so desperately seek. Firm hands grab me from behind, startling me into a small jump. “Valen,” he growls, tasting my name, and blowing his stank, beer breath into my breathing space.

I recognize the voice right away. Sighing, I spin in his hold. “Fancy seeing you here,” I reply, turning out of his strong grasp and backing away to an acceptable distance. Too close and I belong to him, but if I’m too far I’m an ice-cold bitch.

“You knew I’d be here. I’m always at Burning Fish. Want to ditch this place? That’s the subject we should be broaching.” He grins wide and predatory. Oh, what a rookie mistake. I smile at this obvious, FNG. He can’t help being the fucking new guy. Even if he is hot, I’m interested in something a little more…adventurous.

I shake my head and take a sip of my diet soda. “I’m here with a friend tonight. Next time for sure. Okay?” Nodding my head yes, I help him nod in response. That trick works well with drunk people. Waving a prim, tight wave, I vanish into the back screened-in room. The DJ is in the corner, the music is loud, and the bodies are sweaty as they flail around in every direction.

There’s a bar wrapping the edges of this room. It overlooks the ocean. Most of the stools are vacated in favor of dancing, but several are taken by couples trying to have drunken conversations. I’d wager a bet they are trying to decide where to go to after the bar closes. There’s one guy, he’s sitting in the corner, spun so he can watch the bodies as they pass by.

The lights are dim, and people keep butting in front of me, but I’m drawn like a moth to flame. How about frog to mosquito?